A Poised Imposter
by Felfolk
Summary: England has always garnered the attention of many throughout history, it's certainly no surprise given the infamous empire of his prime. However, not all attention is welcome when it comes from a place of spite and jealousy. This is a lesson that England had long since learned well however he never thought he'd be both the victim and the malefactor at once. 2P 1P Hetalia Fic Gen
1. The Intrusion

The Intrusion

He warmed his chilled hands with his breath, crisp March air chilling him through his coat. The rain was light, melting whatever slush was left from the February snows on the London streets. Only the headlights of the occasional car kept him company on the desolate side streets on his way home, the meeting had run late into the night. Yet another day wasted on useless political trifle. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets, wondering why he ever opted to walk to his business house from the conference building, longing for his bed back at the Buckingham. A dead phone, empty wallet, and a house key warmed against his hands. It wasn't his fault the car broke down, though he would admit is was in fact his fault that he left his credit card at home, leaving it out of his wallet by pure accident after the previous night's online purchase; An elegant bone china tea set that he had had his eye on for some time now. A purchase he could only justify by the sale price.

Distracted by his thoughts of purchase and home, he barely noticed the man walking down the sidewalk towards him until they ran into each other, both apologizing fervently, but briefly considering the time. The man gave him a smile from under his tipped hat and continued, hunched with what England could only assume was the cold. It wasn't until he straightened his lapels and put his hands back into his coat that he realized his wallet was now gone. He snapped his head back and watched the man rush around the corner, he sprinted after him full tilt. He may not have cash, but his various forms of identification were all in the leather casing, and those were most certainly of importance. He rounded the corner to find the street empty and slowed his steps, attempting to catch his breath after his sudden burst of energy. He crossed the opening of an alley, peering into the darkness for a moment as he searched for his perpetrator from the lamplit streets. Before he could process the shadows a hand ripped through them and dragged him in by the collar, slamming him against the wall, pain shooting up the wrist crushed against the brick. He tried to shout, but was halted by a firm hand clamping it over his mouth. He struggled against it but slipped on the wet ground, his eyes wide with adrenaline as he took in his assailant who grinned down at him with icy blue eyes in the dim light.

"Well, well, well! Look what I've caught tonight. Arthur Kirkland, yes?" He held the ID in the fingers clamped over his mouth, comparing picture to person with rapid eyes before looking satisfied. England nodded under the hand, attempting to nurse his wrist as best as he can and feeling for a break. "Mhm, yes. Wonderful. I've been looking for you for quite some time! Oh yes I have!" His voice is incredibly cheerful and yet sickeningly familiar, but he couldn't place it. He drops the ID into his pocket and doesn't replace the hand. "Now then, are we going to cooperate, love?"

"Do you know who I am?" Of course he does, he just called him by name. He doesn't struggle however, preferring to save his life over his dignity. The man chuckles and nods.

"Well of course I do. Or I'd hope so after stalking you for weeks." A swift knife reveals itself from his grey coat and into the man's hand. He holds it to England's throat with a wicked grin. "Now then, you going to cooperate or shall I knock some sense into you, hmm?"

"What? Put the knife down! You're an absolute lunatic!" His body began to react out of fear, kicking at the imposing man and grabbing at the knife with his dominant hand, or rather the one with an injured wrist. Before he could even make sense of the sharp pain, a newfound one struck him as the knife stabbed into his thigh, eliciting a scream from England's throat. The strawberry blonde hair glittered in warm light of the lamps as the man dropped him and stooped down to his level, stepping on his cheek.

"Ah ah ah!" It's hellishly sweet. "That's not proper behaviour in the least, my dear." He tried desperately scamper to his feet with the stab wound and wrist that had it not been broken before, certainly was with that fall. An attempt to call out was immediately met with a pointed dress shoes to the ribs, his perpetrator reacting with impeccable speed.

"Shut. It." Now that was familiar. The dulcet tones gone and replaced with bitter, hardened words. This was his voice. His realization must've shown, because the man's smile grew somehow ever wider.

"Who the bloody hell..?" He coughs out the words, trying to regain his air and composure.

"I believe we've already met. Now hush, my dear." The sweet tones return and are the last that he hears as the butt of the knife swings into his temple.

The clock ticked on mercilessly, the nations seated per usual. Germany tapped his foot as he awaited the arrival of the few stragglers. As tense as the air was, at least it was quiet. Canada was certainly thankful for that. He had arrived on time, if not early, for once. Before all of the chaos and arguments could ensue. China and Japan spoke quietly on the side, France sipped his coffee, and the Italy brothers sit halfway between the end of the table and next to Germany as a compromise. Oddly enough, their hosting nation had not arrived yet.

"Where is everyone?" As if on cue, America and Prussia waltzed on in with a few others in tow.

"Ha… Sorry we're late." Spain slipped into a seat next to France and the two immediately started gossiping about last night's exploits. America plopped himself right down next to Canada and chugged on a Gatorade.

"Well finally, now where is Arthur?" The entering nation's shrugged at the mention, a few nursing their own hangover cures. "It's not like we can start without him. Someone get a hold of him. I don't want to spend anymore time than necessary in this building."

"Those British bars are sick, dude!" America leaned over, loudly whispering to Canada.

"They're called pubs, Al." He rolled his eyes and trained them back on the door of the conference room. It felt like forever, but eventually they swung open and in walked a familiar green clad man, sipping tea from a thermos. He yawned and wordlessly took his seat, not seeming to notice that it was directly next to France.

"Danke Gott, now resuming from yesterday…" Germany turned his back to them and towards the projected presentation, not awaiting or wanting an explanation for the extensive tardiness of the usually timely nation. France pestered him making a few obvious intimations, which were of course quickly declined by the man. Canada took a long sip of coffee as he floated between listening to America and his two previous guardians. England was particularly docile today, enough so that France eventually gave up out of boredom.

"And then he threw him over the counter. It was heckin' crazy!"

"Mhm, that's great Al." America's recounting of a multiple decade ago bar fight was probably the least interesting thing aside from Germany's ramblings about economics. It appeared to Canada that England felt the same as he spooned out the teabag of his now steeped drink with a sigh. He was an elegant man, and held himself in such a manner that briefly reminded Canada of the once great empire that ruled on both land and sea.

"Any input? I am feeling as though I am speaking with a wall."

"You were for the most part." France's comment earned him a few chuckles and even a smirk from the Briton beside him. "Perhaps we break and continue this parley after a bit of wine, non?" Germany sighed, waving his hand in dismissal.

"Not like I can stop you. We will take a fifteen minute break. _Fifteen_ , you hear?" The nations each showed varying degrees of acknowledgement as they filed out of the room. England stood and stretched before picking up his tea and continuing out into the break area. Canada turned to ask America a question, but his other half was already long gone. He sighed, walking out of the conference room. The sight was typical, Spain fawned over the Italy's much to one's distaste, France floated about between the nations, and a few of the louder ones had taken to the snack table to brag and boast. Oddly enough, England had placed himself on the outskirts of the room, appearing to just observe his fellow nations with a bored expression plastered on his face. The sweeping green eyes rested on Canada for a long moment before moving back into the motions with a sip from his thermos. The stare wasn't particularly uninviting, so he decided to give the lonely man a bit of company should he be noticed.

"Hey, Arthur. What's up?" He stood near him, hoping to be noticed and maybe create some form of conversation.

"Oh, Matthew what can I help you with?" He didn't turn to face him, but he seemed interested enough. At least he wasn't ignoring the younger nation. Canada let out a small sigh of relief.

"Oh, nothing. Just wanted to know if you were okay. You were pretty late, eh?" He gave England a smile and received a curt nod back.

"I had an awful night, couldn't fall asleep till late. The car broke down, my phone died, a man even tried to mug me I swear to God. I certainly showed him what for." He smirked and took a sip of tea, looking at Canada. "I do admit they did give me a hard time, must be getting old."

"You were mugged? Arthur, you need to be more careful, honestly. You look awful." This was true, the bags under his eyes seemed to show through a hint of concealer most likely used to hide them. Despite how tired he looked, his eyes were their usual lively and wise green.

"I'm fine, Matthew. Honest." Despite his reassuring words, England's worn out expression gave Canada his answer of agreement. "I wish this were over. I just want to go back to Buckingham and sleep." He yawned and took another longer sip of tea. Even in this exhausted state, Canada could admit that England still carried an air of importance and wisdom to him, as someone his age might. It had been a long time since Canada had spoken with his former mentor and close friend. He couldn't help but revel in it for a few moments, peacefully watching the nations alongside England. France was 'harassing' America, commenting on his fashion and something about Parisian fashion outclassing New Yorker fashion. England sighed and handed Canada his tea.

"Would you hold this for a moment, Matthew?"

"Yeah, sure." He watched England swoop in to separate the two, telling them they both looked terrible and that London would forever be the best fashion capital of the world in a snarky manner. Canada smirked at his technical family and took a sip of England's tea. Earl Grey, a favourite of the Briton. Germany's voice eventually cut through the room and one by one each of the nations filed back into the conference.

"Hey, Arthur."

England turned around to see Canada quickly walking towards him after the meeting.

"You forgot your tea." Canada handed him the thermos with a smile.

"Ah, yes. Thank you, Matthew. I really must be going, lots of paperwork to finish on the new legislation." Canada seemed almost disappointed at this, looking away nervously. "Whatever is the matter?"

"I was just wondering if maybe I could come over and cook tonight? It's been a long time since we've done anything like it, and there's really no better time, right?" The younger nation looked hopeful in a way that England could hardly bring himself to turn down. He sighed and agreed, letting the excitement come to fruition.

"No earlier and no later than five o' clock, you hear?" Canada nodded in response and rushed off to catch his cab. Wonderful, a night to himself doused in the company of another. At least it was just Canada. He walked out of the building into the drizzle, a valet pulling his now repaired car to the front of the building. He thanked the woman and got in, feeling nice and cozy in his warmed leather seat. Three forty-five. He pulled out of the parking lot and took the back way through the industrial area, doing his best to stay awake. After last night, a car accident was the last thing he needed. He halted at a red light and watched the rain patter on his windshield, only to be briskly removed by a sweep of his wipers. The flick of a switch brought on the welcome noise of the radio, reporting on a few crashes due in part to the lousy weather.

"Following the recent murder of Elizabeth Swanson…" He listened carefully as he continued his drive home, this was important to him. "...In other news, authorities have been unable to trace back any DNA samples on the body, making this week two without any answers on the events of February 23rd. If you have any information regarding-" He shut off the car, stepping out and rushing up to his house to stay as dry as possible. He locked the door behind him and stripped off his forest green suit jacket, hanging it next to his keys. The clock quietly ticked onwards reading 'four o' seven', forty-three minutes. He walked into his kitchen, looking around at the mess of the rarely used facilities in an attempt to figure out where to start making his home presentable. He started by loading up his dishwasher, and decided he could probably hoover the place last. He wiped down a few counters and organized his paperwork, carrying it back to his study in large heaps before dropping it onto his desk for later. He opened the door to the bathroom and noticed the overflowing garbage, deciding to take it out now before the rain could get any worse. A bottle of dye fell out of the trash, he scooped it up quickly, shoving it back into the bag. He hummed as he dumped the garbage into the bin, observing the streets of the gated community. London wasn't his favourite place, but it was certainly special. He couldn't help but miss his old green pastures before he came up with industrialization. The good old days, where he conquered left right and centre and had everyone else do his work for him. Not much he could do about it now. He stepped back inside, searching for the hoover to finish up his work.

It couldn't be found in any of the closets or rooms on the ground floor, so he moved on to searching the cellar. He opened the door and made his move downstairs, flicking on the lights and pattering down the stairs in his dress shoes. He checked the various nooks and crannies, finding nothing with a frown. He sighed and turned on the light of the cellar's back room, looking at the rather pathetic sight before him. He paid it no mind and walked over the unconscious man before grabbing the broom and continuing on to finish his chores.


	2. The Opposition

The Opposition

Canada stood outside the door, watching the clock on his phone. He'd been there for five minutes already, but it wasn't quite time. As soon as the hour changed, he rang the doorbell. Moments later, the door creaked open and a kind smile greeted him and welcomed him in from the damp outside. Canada thanked him and handed off his coat, removing his wet runners and walking after the Briton into the kitchen. The inviting and warm smell of tea surrounded him as he opened the door. The eyes lurked on him a moment more before they moved to the kitchen. The room was sweet with the scent of pastry, England appearing to be quite at home in his plush sweater vest and looser slacks. The two exchanged friendly banter for a short time before an oven timer went off, the elder pulling some scones from the oven.

"I wasn't aware you baked." He said this mostly jokingly, but still interested in the apparent new hobby of the man, as well as the fact that the hobby indeed smelled and looked edible.

"Oh hardly, Matthew." England chuckled. "I've been home merely an hour. I already had these from the store. I read somewhere that baking them again with a bit of butter makes them absolutely delectable." He rambled on briefly about his scones as he sided them with raspberries from the fridge and put some water on to boil. Canada smiled to himself as he sorted out a bag of veggies he had bought, along with some fresh salmon. He sliced up the filets and prepped the glaze as England prepared and offered Canada a cup of rose tea and a scone.

"Don't you think it's a bit late for tea?"

"I missed tea time for the conference. Better late than never."

"Isn't it four o' clock or something? You could've had it while you were waiting."

England shook his head and sighed. "There was far too much to do, and far too little time to do it." He stirred his amber drink pensively for a moment before appearing to come to a conclusion somewhere deep within the woodwork. "Besides, Matthew. I'd much rather spend it in your company." Canada took a bite of scone as he worked, it was certainly good. The warmth of the stove made the soft patter of rain on the window distant, the gentle ticking of wall clock a welcome sound in the peaceful room. They conversed wordlessly, a mutual understanding saying all that needed to be said. A placid state of being that neither could ever admit to longing for, yet both most definitely did. It was only interrupted by the clacking of plates as Canada dished up the food in due time.

"Thank you." He graciously accepted the meal and continued to eat it only when Canada had taken his seat. "Matthew? Why on Earth did you want to come over tonight? Not that I'm regretting it of course…" He took another bite of the glazed salmon.

"You seemed lonely."

England appeared to pause for a moment. "Whatever do you mean by that?" Though he still ate, those green eyes rested on him, though seeming gentle in nature, were almost arduous to maintain a gaze with. He could help but stumble over his words at the sudden intensity of the man's gaze. It was… Unsettling. Something wasn't quite right about it. About _him_.

"I don't know."

"Right."

And just like that, the room returned to peace, though the air somewhat cooler than it had been before. The smaller nation's gaze melted to one of concern, any semblance of the defensive nature melting away with the icy tension. They continued to eat, England's gaze settling on him once more as Canada came to finish his plate.

"Are you quite alright? You look pale." He reached out and touched Canada's forehead, his fingertips familiarly calloused from his long dead years of seamanship and fieldwork. Canada nodded, ducking out from under the thin fingers. "Do you need to lay down? I have a spare bedroom, Matthew. Jet-lag is dreadful, I know."

"That might be it, yeah. It's fine Arthur. It's been a lot of fun, we really need to do this more often. I can sleep in the hotel room." He stood up and took his dishes to the sink.

"Well, my door is always open to you, Matthew. Swing by whenever you like, you hear? No, it's fine. I'll take care of these." Canada was stopped before he could begin to help clear the rest of the table. "You made the food. The least I can do is clean up the place, my place." Matthew sighed and yawned. He hadn't realized how tired he was until England had brought it up. It would be best to rest himself.

"Alright, Arthur. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Of course, Matthew. I hope the weather is kind to you." It didn't appear that it would be such, the dark clouds hanging low in the air. A storm was brewing between the brief periods of downpour. "Perhaps you'll be able to outspeed it if you try hard enough." Canada nodded and watched the grim skies. He pulled his coat on over his shoulders and squished into his run-down shoes, not bothering to untie the laces. He couldn't help but chuckle at the expression of sheer distaste on England's sharper features. "You and your brother, honestly. You'd think I'd raised you with a bit more decency." The man sighed and shook his head with a reminiscing smile.

"Guess not." The two exchanged a chuckle and Canada opened the door, only to be met with a chilled wind, damp air, and a lack of a car. "Aw rats, I forgot. I need a cab."

"Not at all, love. I'll take you back." He turned to see that England was already pulling a dress coat over his attire and picking his keys off of their respective hook. "The cabs will run you straight into traffic in weather like this."

"Thank you, Arthur."

His eyes snapped open and watched the room spin for a moment. Where was he? The cement was cold and stiffening, his muscles and bones aching for use. Thunder rolled on outside, the dim pipes seeming to shake with the heavenly crashes. What happened? He could hardly remember. He hissed as dried blood ripped his pant leg from his skin. Was he tied up? He shimmied his wrists in the ropes, it had been a long time since he could remember being in a situation like this. Which World War was it again? The first or the second? It didn't matter. He quickly recognized the knot and slowly began to work his hands out of it. An eternity passed before he managed to loosen the cinch, another eternity or so passing him by until he finally managed to loose his hands from his bonds. He struggled to stand, his leg all but groaning as he pulled himself up on the exposed pipes. Good God, where was he? He limped out of the furnace room. Was this his house? Yes. He made his way to the stairs by memory, not wanting to waste time or energy finding the light switch. Nineteen stairs exactly. Nineteen painful stairs to drag his leg up. As soon as he reached the door, he threw it open.

The warm light washed over him, flooding his eyes all too quickly. He shut them for a moment to readjust his senses. What happened? Why was he brought home? He slowly opened his eyes again to see a man standing before him.

"You took your time. Making me wait, no less." A strong foot planted itself against his chest and abruptly drove him back down the stairs in a less than graceful fashion. The man took to the first step and slammed the door behind him, plunging them both into darkness. "Of course I should have expected a man like yourself to be able to slip bonds, but I had really hoped to find you awake in ropes. Would have made this far easier to deal with."

He scurried back on the floor, trying to regain his footing as the calm, deadly sound of dress shoes on wood slowly descended towards him in the pitch.

"Who are you?" He pulled himself up a wall and slowly traced around the outside, not making a sound after he posed his question. Storage was on the other side, and so were a pair of old hedge clippers, an snarky unconventional gift from France. Well, perhaps not as unconventional as they might seem.

"I'm England."

Now that right there was a lie. _He_ was England. He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to give away his position, but he needed to keep him talking. From the sound of it, he was on the other side of the dark room, equally silent in his footsteps if he was moving at all.

"No, you're not."

"Try me, love."

A firm hand grabbed at his collar and slammed him against the wall, winding him as he was thrown to the floor in an all too familiar turn of events.

"Found you! You never learn, do you?"

It took him longer than he had hoped to recover from it, but once he had he scrambled out from under him and made a run for the storage room, knowing full well that his perpetrator would think he was going for the stairs. As soon as he passed them he stopped and stalked silently to the ajar door of the room, sliding on inside and feeling around for the shears, a blade, anything. Where did he keep his old cutlass? Oh right, above his bed. How useful.

"I'm getting impatient, Arthur. Come along and behave yourself." That was much too close for his liking. He finally grabbed the handle of something and pulled it off its shelf as silently as he could. France's stupid gift had come through. He slowly made his way out of the room towards the main cellar, leg aching for a break, beginning to bleed once more. He held the shears as steadily as he could in front of him, forcing his hands not to shake from the cold and nerves and coursed through him. "Arthur, it would do you well to cooperate." He thrusted the shears forwards into the dark, sinking them into something by the feel of it. Yet there was no sound, nor could he pull them back.

"God damn it-"

"Such foul language." The hot breath poured across his ear, the man keeping a firm grip on his blade. "I'll let it slide for the gift, however." He could almost hear that twisted smile. He could almost feel it. He took a wild punch, managing land a hit and shoving the perpetrator off of him. Where were the stairs? He kept a finger on the wall as he attempted to find them, disoriented by the adrenaline and pain. The shears metallic ring sounded as they were stabbed into the wall not six inches behind him. The stairs. He ran up and threw open the door, blinding himself with the light. He quickly shut it again as the man trudged up the steps behind him, shears in one hand with a grin plastered on his face. He pulled the nearby coffee table against it, jamming the handle. His breathing more laboured than he could ever remember it being, but he wasn't going to rest until every piece of furniture was up against this door.


	3. The Bait

The Bait

He had pushed just about half of his living room up against the cellar door. The man had backed down from attempting to kick the door down rather quickly, much to England's surprise. He inspected his once broken wrist. It had healed, just as it should for a mortal injury. This meant however, that whatever was in his cellar that had inflicted the stab wound in his thigh was indeed a nation. He slumped against the couch and took a deep breath. If he didn't get this leg taken care of it would get infected, if it wasn't already. He couldn't call an ambulance, not without having to leave the lunatic in his house. Alone. He couldn't call the police, this was a nation he had locked up in his basement, let alone one that claimed to be himself. It wasn't worth the risk. The thunder continued its gentle roll in the distance, the rain no longer flying against the windows of the home. He didn't have a knife on hand, so the whole trouser was going to have to come off. He slowly inched them off, biting his cheek as the fabric rubbed against the wound. He finished and tossed the blood stained tan wool to the side, inspecting the cut. It was deep, but miraculously lacking in puss. There was dried blood down to his ankle, sticky and unsightly. England had gotten worse cuts from Spain back in the old days and he was still here. Of course, that was the old days.

He pulled himself up, putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure on the gash. His gaze remained locked on the barricade for a long moment before he managed to get to the bathroom down the hall. The warm lights of his house and the welcoming smell of cooked fish were almost insulting. How dare his home not reflect his state of disrepair. He flicked on the lights and sat on the edge on the edge of the tub, only after locking the door. The rest of his garments were thankfully much easier to remove before he slid in, pulling the curtain over so he wouldn't soak his floor. He sat in the corner of the shower, hot water pouring over all but his face, blood washing away down the drain. Minutes droned on as he watched the water run down the drain before finally cleaning up the cut in his leg. The ache being minimally soothed by the warmth of the shower. He scrubbed the blood from his unbroken skin that failed to come off on its own.

He couldn't tell how much time had passed since he got in the shower upon getting out, let alone how much time had passed since he was stabbed in the alley. The house was an eerie quiet without the pump of adrenaline in his ear or the shower running. He decided to turn on the sink to feel perhaps a little less alone. Who cares if he's wasting water? There was plenty of it coming down outside. It had been a long time since he had needed to apply gauze to anything on his body, but he pulled it out of the first aid kit from beneath the sink and began to tightly bind it around his thigh. The rubbing alcohol pad stung as he placed it over top of the injury and continued to encase it. He clipped it with a safety pin and sighed. Now what to do with the basement dweller? He pulled on a towel and peeked out of the bathroom. The barricade was still in place. Good. Despite his minor limp, he still managed to quietly make it back to his room. The unhelpful cutlass smiled at him from its mount.

"Thanks for nothing." He spoke under his breath to no one in particular. Half past eight, only the day after the incident. He hadn't been out for too long, and that was at least a minor relief. An olive bathrobe found its way onto his body and he revelled in the fluffy comfort. His phone was charging on the desk where he sat. Any normal person could use this as a lifeline. Unfortunately he was not a normal person, nor was this a normal situation. His only other options would be the others attending the summit as he was certainly in no shape to take on the one below, premeditated or not. Germany was certainly an option, not that the two were on the best terms. America wouldn't take him seriously, Japan didn't seem like the best option to take on a murderous nation with shears. It was now that England realized how truly alone he was among friends. There was however, one person. Canada was on good terms with the older nation, but then again size doesn't mean power. The man would probably wind up dead at the hands of whoever this was. He couldn't live with himself if he let that happen. The only option was to deal with this himself.

He made his way over to a storage closet knowing full well that he should really be laying down. He dug his way to the back and retrieved his old musket. He didn't keep it in the basement in case of a home invasion, where running downstairs would be the last thing any person with an ounce of intelligence would do. The gun may be illegal, but he could get away with a few things. He inched towards the barricade, a floorboard creaking beneath his feet. He paused, listening for any sound beyond the door. Nothing. He continued to take a single piece of furniture off at a time. As he took the first of two end tables off, a voice chilled him from beyond the door.

"That was awfully quick. You're takin it down already? You really are lonely." They chuckle and sigh. "Perhaps we could discuss this over a cup of tea? You must be awfully shaken up."

"What is there to discuss? You tried to kill me." He puts that table back. Not today.

"I am aware, but perhaps we got off on the wrong foot." This man was awfully confusing. They spoke as if with an old friend, pleasant and familiar. He obviously wasn't too uncomfortable. "The name's Arthur, what's yours?" He couldn't be serious. England took a long moment to decide how to proceed. He kept the gun pointed at the door and pile of furniture pushed up against it.

"Arthur."

"Oh how wonderfully coincidental!" He was serious, he was going to play this game. He kept the gun trained against the door as he moved to lean on the couch. His leg was in no position to maintain a shooting stance. "Now I do believe we have some things we need to discuss."

The door opened and England walked in, eight on the dot. Germany nodded in approval at the resumed timeliness of the nation. England took his seat far from France, but to his apparent dismay found himself near America instead. Canada bent around his brother to smile at England.

"I never got to say thank you for last night's dinner, Arthur."

"Hm? Oh, think nothing of it, Matthew." The Englishman didn't look Canada in the eye, or look at him at all. He seemed distracted, green eyes pensive with his blank stare at the projector. He must have had a late night, he seemed a little more disheveled than usual. Canada would have to ask about this later.

"Arthur, dude! You look grumpier than Ludwig today. What's up? You mad that we're already kicking your ass in soccer this year or somethin'?" Or America could ask now. That was fine. England looked more than a little annoyed at this comment but shook his head.

"No, you git. It's none of your business."

"Harsh. You kn-" Germany interrupted, calling the summit to session. It was the same as yesterday, nothing being accomplished for the longest time. Half of the nations seemed to nearly fall asleep, England had taken to writing his name in various cursives on a napkin, Spain and France flicked a pencil back and forth across the table when Germany wasn't looking. Which, of course, was often. One flick on France's end went haywire and landed in front of England, who wordlessly pocketed the pencil and jotted down a few notes in pen. He yawned, oblivious to France and Spain's silent but very passionate complaints from the other end of the table. It eventually got to the point where England took the pencil out and casually snapped it on the table, leaving it next to his papers. This of course led America to swipe them and silently toss one piece to France and the other to Spain. England gave him a look. The mildly enraged dad look that Canada and America knew very, very well.

"Oh c'mon Iggy. Lighten up!" The American whispered and gave England a playful nudge.

"Oh, Alfred. If you're so talkative, why not give us your view on the matter?"

"I still think the superhero idea could work. It's like totally possible! Or, now hear me out. We just move the Earth," He made a sweeping motion with his arms. "A few miles further from the sun."

"And who exactly would pay for that?"

"Basch, please don't entertain this idea." Germany looked defeated as he watched the control over this meeting slowly slip from his hands. America obviously had an answer.

"Literally everyone else! I came up with it so I did my part!"

"Everyone would literally die, Alfred for Christ's sake." England, like any other sensible person seemed incredibly exasperated that he had to explain this at all.

"Nah they wouldn't! Greenhouse gases and crap! They stay in the air and they're all warm so everyone would stay warm and the sun wouldn't need to heat us anymore."

"That is the exact _opposite_ of what we're trying to do. We want less gases you absolute imbecile." This continued on for another half an hour or so, Canada just sat there, as usual. He had ideas and solutions, but it wasn't like anyone would listen to him anyway. The argument got further heated, England standing to talk down to the taller nation.

"Sit down dude, you're making a big deal out of nothing!" America gave him a pat on the thigh. England doubled over and despite his best efforts to bite his tongue, let a small cry break through gritted teeth as he was forced to sit down. "Oh come on, I didn't even hit you!"

"Angleterre?" France was immediately over at his side. "What's wrong?"

"I'm fine, sod off the both of you." America's expression changed when he realized the man was actually hurt. England quickly packed up his papers into a briefcase and got up, evidently trying to take weight off of his leg. Canada got up to help, but was immediately brushed off. "You too." He was gone moments later, France following him out the door.

"You don't need to go too, Francis."

"I don't need to listen to your silly German rules. He's hurt and I do what I want." And the purple suited man was through the door. Germany had turned his gaze to America.

"Thank you for throwing this entirely off the rails."

"Yeah, whatever." As Germany tried his best to resume the subject matter, Canada watched as America's eyes trained themselves on the door the two nations had left through, concern clouding them over as his foot tapped almost inaudibly on the carpet.

The meeting had wrapped up, neither France or England having returned. America walked alongside Canada, not quite as boisterous as usual. Canada knew he was concerned, worried even. He put a hand on his shoulder, offering to help him look for the two. America agreed and they set off down the halls, neither having a single clue where the two nations could possibly be. They swept the floors, top to bottom, not a single sign of the two. It certainly wasn't like them to up and leave like this, especially without telling anyone. America walked up to a secretary, asking if either of the two had checked out only to learn that they had. There was no way that they would be able to find them now. Canada decided to just send a text to France, asking if England was okay. His phone died as he went in to send a text to England. A full day's worth of meetings and no charger would do that to a phone. He sighed and walked with America out of the building. The two of them hailing a cab in the streets and directing it back to their hotel. Canada watched the sky slowly turn from blue to orange to fuchsia over their drive back. The light reflecting across the glass buildings, bringing some form of warmth to the chilly March. The rain of the night before had washed away the remnant snow, April officially setting itself in and preparing to make its flowery appearance. He sighed and sat back in his seat. America was gazing out the window as well. For once, Canada was unsure about what was on his mind. Maybe because he wasn't screaming it to the heavens, but it could also be the stoic expression on his features. He cared for England, just as Canada did. They arrived at the hotel and took their bags with them up the steps, a bellhop bringing the elevator down for them.

They walked into the penthouse suite, which Canada had insisted they didn't need, but America had adamantly requested. He plugged his phone in and got to making some dinner as America sat in front of the television. The Swanson case lighting up the lounge. Something about it didn't seem quite right. The BBC reporter droned on about the lack of evidence in the case. Sure, murders go cold all the time, but there was just no way this couldn't be solved. A murder weapon had been left behind, the body was left in the open. It didn't make sense. America must have been thinking the same thing as he watched the screen. The details were awfully resemblant of an old English murderer. Every cut was made with incredible precision. Organs neatly harvested, if one could call it neat. Yet again it seemed, this one would go uncaught. He turned back to the ground beef in the pan, stirring it some more before going on to prepare the seasoning and vegetables.

France poured the Englishman a glass of merlot, drier wines he assumed would be the preference of the man due to his love of hard liquors. He brought the glasses over and put one on a coaster for each of them. England had refused to tell him how, but there was gash in his thigh, and a large one at that. He gently changed the dressing on the wound, England sipping on the wine. The warmth of the hotel room and piano music were cut cold into his skin as his eyes met the cold dead ones staring him down.

"Francis, would anyone care if I disappeared?"

[A/N: Sorry about the false upload! I realized it was the wrong file whoops! Anyway, here you guys go. Two chapters in twenty four hours, aren't you lucky?]


	4. The Contradiction

The Contradiction

"What on Earth do you mean? Of course you'd be missed, mon amis." France couldn't help but chuckle to break the tension. This died rather quickly as England's expression didn't change. He was serious. He paused his work on England's leg and sat back on the coffee table. "Why do you bring this up all of a sudden?"

"I figured you're the only person who would be brutally honest with me. I suppose I was wrong." He took a sip of the wine, eyes unmoving from France's. The man had a habit of making direct eye contact. It made even France more than a little nervous on the off occasion, this was one of those occasions. Despite the clear green, the thoughts and intent were clouded. His poker face was impeccable, but the rest of his body language spoke volumes. His knuckles were nearing white as he gripped the glass, his toes curling for a brief moment in his socks. This man was afraid, but of what? France couldn't think of the words he intended to comfort him with, not in English at least for the moment. He continued to dress the wound, the eyes pinpricks on his scalp as he broke the contact to focus on his work. "Thought so." Perhaps a few more glasses would loosen the poor man up, maybe he could get more out of him then. He worked in silence for a few minutes, the tensing of his leg in reaction to the rubbing alcohol and the pulse under the skin any indication that this man was even alive. He pinned the new gauze over top of it and picked up his own glass of wine. England had since directed his attention out of the large window in the suite, the London Eye spinning slowly against the orange sky. He sat on the couch, not directly next to him, but certainly close enough that his options would be open.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" England shook his head and sighed, a small smile on his lips.

"Well I have an absolute lunatic clone of myself from another dimension locked in the basement barred by all of my living room furniture, for one." There was England. Wisecracking and dry in his humour as ever. France couldn't help but laugh from both his previous nerves and ludicrous of the apparent cause of England's grief.

"Oh thank God, you had me worried for a minute there." England chuckled and took another sip, easing himself into the couch. "Now would you mind telling me how you got this nasty gash in your leg? Let us clear up another mystery, no?"

"Freak accident in kitchen, Francis. That's all you need to know." Not that France would want to inquire any further as to how England had somehow planted a knife in his thigh whilst cooking, he was somewhat curious of the events that led to such. "Don't." England must have noticed this curiosity because it was instantly shut down by the man. France chuckled and took a sip of wine.

"But tell me, Arthur. Why do you feel as though you wouldn't be missed? Surely you know how much of a lie that is." The faint smile ran from his lips, his fingernails drumming against the glass for a moment.

"You gossip like there's no tomorrow, please Francis, I need you to be honest with me. Am I likeable? Because I don't really know. I've never bothered myself with it." This was a surprise. Why was he asking him of all people? France thought for a moment. His immediate thought was how no in fact England was not exactly the most likeable of people. A sharp tongue, chilly attitude, and prideful nature were certainly omnipresent in nearly all aspects of his personality. There were good things too, like… Like his sharp wit; which more often than not lead to him insulting someone. Maybe his ambition? Of course it took a kind person to put that to a beneficial use. He could be kind, but that kindness seemed to be solely directed at small children and imaginary friends. Now that France was genuinely thinking about it, there wasn't much he could find to work with that wouldn't sound like a half-baked report card comment. England was like a cactus to him, a prickly green thing that had grown on him over the years that probably had some good stuff in there if you dug deep enough. Though France couldn't be sure. He'd never broken open a cactus before. He opened his mouth to respond, but had to shut it. His silence appearing to tell England all he needed to know. The expectant look quickly turned to one of realization and then one of defeat.

"Well, maybe you can use this time to-" His phone buzzed on the table, lighting up to signify a text from Canada. France leaned over to check it.

"Really? That's more important? That's fine, I was just thinking of leaving anyway."

"No, Arthur no. Don't be like this, it's Matthew. He was just asking how you're doing. He was worried." The nation downed the rest of his wine in one fell swoop before looking at his own phone.

"Oh, certainly explains why he texted you and not the person he was supposedly worried about." He pulled the slacks all the way over his boxers that had given France access to the wound. "It's fine. I'll leave you be." His words were cold, so were his eyes as he stood up. It was obvious that we was attempting to hide his limp as he walked to get his coat. That fear from before seeming to have crept back in.

"Arthur, listen to yourself. It's Matthew! Of course he cares. You're in no position to be walking around." He tried to bar him from leaving, honestly more than a little concerned for the man's safety. England looked up from his buttoning, the two eye to eye. It was a fierce stare that met his own, but France wasn't about to back down this time.

"And you aren't in a position to keep me in this room. Step aside." He was unblinking and as stubborn as ever. He would return this stare until England sat back down and that was final. His refusal didn't catch the Englishman off-guard, but rather resulted in a furrowing of his brow. "Are you deaf all of a sudden? I said step aside."

"Non, Je pense que vous devriez vous asseoir, Angleterre." England scowled. Whatever chance of getting through to him France had, he watched it slip away behind a defensive barrier.

"Va te faire foutre." England forced his way to the door before throwing it open and disappearing down the hall. It wasn't often England insulted France in his mother tongue. Not exactly a welcome experience, in his opinion. What could possibly be wrong with him? He set to cleaning up the small mess in the hotel room from his first aid endeavour. He could have at least said a short thank you. He fired a text to Canada. _Il va bien. Juste de mauvaise humeur. Dis à Alfred de l'éviter, d'accord? Il serait préférable de lui donner du temps seul. SVP et merci._ Alone time would do the man best perhaps. England always seemed to be calmer when left alone to his thoughts after all.

Alone time was exactly what England needed, not that he could get it. He slammed open the door of his house and stared at the barricaded basement, he wasn't alone. He quietly walked up to the barricade, everything was still in place as far as he could tell. The man was probably pacing around the basement, like the creep he was. He realized he hadn't closed the door as a cold draft washed over his coat. He returned to shut it and hung up his coat. For all intensive purposes, he was on edge. He flicked on the television for white noise. A murder case? Not the best thing to ease his nerves, but it would work. He turned it up and walked into the kitchen, pulling a box of frozen fish sticks out of the freezer. He slapped them on a baking sheet, his only baking sheet, and set the oven to preheat. He watched the degrees slowly work up. The news was grim, not a single fingerprint to point them in the right direction. Every detail of the murder was all too familiar to England. Of course in the long run, the killer had to be long since dead. Then again, they never caught that one either. His fingers drummed on the counter. A knock on the door drew him from his stupor. He made his way to the front door and opened it. No one was there. He closed it once more and turned the deadbolt. There was that knock again. It was coming from the basement.

"I'm not opening the door." He walked up to the basement, a voice beyond sighing about being hungry. "I don't care. You can starve down there." The oven beeped, signifying that it was time to throw the fish sticks in.

"We both know that isn't possible, love. I promise I won't try to get out if you slide a plate of cheese under the door." England thought for a moment before pulling a block of cheddar out of the fridge. He carved a paper thin slice off and took it to the door, moving the couch out of the way so he could throw the translucent orange slice of milk under the door before putting the couch back. "Oh, thank you." The voice sounded cheerful, though a little disappointed. "What are you having for dinner?" This man was quite docile now that he wasn't try to kill him. Hopefully it would stay this way until England could figure out what to do with him. "It's awfully lonely down here, could you perhaps leave the telly on when you leave tomorrow? You don't have to talk to me, but it is comforting to have some noise."

"Is it now?" He walks into the living room and shuts the television off. He could always watch the report on his laptop, with headphones. The man seemed disappointed, but didn't complain. "I haven't had the best day, so if you could kindly shut up tonight." He sat down on the couch, pulling his phone out. Still nothing from Canada, nor anyone else for that matter. Of course they didn't care, why should they?

"I could listen if you'd like. If it would make you feel better, we are one in the same. I'm sure I could understand."

"I still don't believe you. You know how ridiculous your story is, right? It doesn't make any sense." His eyes trailed across his newsfeed, despite the close proximity to the man he felt much safer knowing exactly what was happening around the basement door than not being able to see it.

"Well, who would I be then? I'm obviously English, a nation, and we're nearly identical. I can tell by your gait that you have already figured out that I'm not human. I know it's difficult to believe, but you do need to understand that I am here to help you." Yes, help him through murder. "They don't care for you, do they? Is that what's wrong?" England remained silent. He didn't answer him because he didn't want to affirm anything. "I already understand, you don't have to answer. I'm sorry about the leg, by the way. It wasn't really a part of the plan, it just sort of happened." God he sounded innocent, almost genuine in his apology. He blocked it out as best as he could. "Are you cooking fish? I had some last night, Matthew cooked it for me, it was quite good. Does he cook for you often?" Hardly ever if at all. "You know, Arthur? I could probably get out of here if I really wanted to, magic circle in the basement and all that. You left your wand down here too. A pity." He was right. He had leave all of his spell books downstairs, and if he was truly dealing with who he said he was, he couldn't risk it. Perhaps he could lull him into a sense of false security? Convince him to pass the books he'd need under the door? That seemed like his best bet, if not his only bet.

"Tell you what. How about you pass me the wand, and I give you some fish sticks and tartar sauce." The man agreed, saying it seemed completely reasonable. England could hear him walking down the steps from the landing. The timer went off on the oven and England got up to go pull them out. He took a few off and put them on a plate. They were a bit singed, but edible enough. He poured a modest amount of tartar sauce on the the plate. He took the rest and made a plate for himself before walking out and setting his own plate on the barricade couch. "Do you have it?"

"Of course!" He would have to take his word for it. He pushed the barricade ever so slightly out of the way, opening the the door slowly, ready to slam it at a moment's notice. The visage of himself did in fact have the wand. The man didn't make an advance, he instead slowly held out the wand. England slowly handed him the fish sticks and took that wand. He went to close the door, but the blond put a hand on the door. Oh no, this was a mistake. He must have seen the panic enter England's features because he quickly took his hand back off. "Just, before you lock it again, could you grab my contact case? It should be on the vanity in the bathroom I'll stay here, promise. These things are just awfully irritating."

"What? Oh, sure." There wasn't any harm in that, was there? He backed away from the door, keeping a solid eye on him as he walked back into the bathroom. The contact case was exactly where he said it was. He quickly grabbed them and came back out. The other man was just munching on the fish sticks, still on the landing. He handed them over and the man smiled, swallowing back his food.

"Thank you, love. Can you hold this?" He offers him the fish sticks. England found himself holding them and watching as he changed out the contacts, blinking before pocketing the lenses and taking back his fish sticks. This couldn't possibly be the same man from before. He looked quite normal in fact. England slowly began to close the door.

"You… You good? Need anything else?" The other man shook his head and continued to munch those fish sticks. "Okay then…" He shut the door all the way and moved back the barricade. Somehow he felt less comfortable and more comfortable with his current situation at the same time. Why was he being so docile, civil even? Was this even the same person? England sat down on the couch and picked up his plate of fish sticks, he slowly began to eat them. The voice chimed beyond the door.

"These are really good! Did you batter these yourself?"

"Uh, no. They're store bought." Well at least he liked them.

"Oh, well they're good anyway. You should certainly try to make some, I'm sure they'd be good too." Yeah they'd be great. He could see what he was trying to do now. Flattery wouldn't get its way with him. Right? It never had before, though it was a nice boost of confidence, especially after today. "Say, Arthur? What was wrong today? You said earlier that you were upset."

"Well firstly, isn't it weird for you to call me by your name? Because it would definitely be weird for me."

"Is that why you haven't called by name? Thank goodness, I thought you might hate me or something." He chuckles and England hears a small thump and slide against the door. He must be sitting down against it, on the cold hardwood. "Well, you could call me something else if you like. I'm open to anything really." England thought for a moment.

"What about Oliver? I've always fancied the name." He nodded to himself even though the other couldn't see it.

"Oliver… I'd like that. Rolls off the tongue nice, doesn't it? Oliver." He sounded quite pleased, satisfied with his new name, even if it was only temporary. "So Arthur? What's wrong?" Oliver inquired sweetly. England sighed. Where to start?

"Well I'm quite sure that almost everyone dislikes me in some way or another, honestly it feels like I can't even get a thought out most of the time without someone correcting me. Even if it's on a completely subjective front, honestly I know your opinion is different, but let me have mine for a minute, please. I don't understand how hard that is. I sit through countless hours of your idiotic ideas and then suddenly I say a single word and I'm the bad guy all of a sudden. Honestly…" He began to delve deep. It felt good to finally get it off of his chest, into the open even if the only person who was there to hear it was himself. Oliver listened intently, occasionally chiming in with agreement or understanding. He just listened. That was all England wanted, someone to listen to him for once in his life. If he looked back on everything, there really wasn't ever a time he's ever been able to completely voice his opinions aloud to anyone. Other nations didn't want to hear a word of it, his older brothers were often a source of his frustrations, the Queen was meant to be spared of his personal tribulations for the sanctity of royalty. He had taken them onto himself for far too long. This person understood a surprising amount of his struggles, relating to them from behind the wooden barrier. It was almost comforting. Not comforting enough for him to trust him, but if this truly was himself, there was no reason for him not to spill supposedly shared conflict with him, right? Right. The conversation ran late into the night, cold unfinished and cold fish sticks plated on the floor next to the couch where he laid.

"Oh, you must be exhausted of hearing me go on. I'm sorry, Oliver."

"No, not at all! Don't be sorry, I understand. Say, what time is it?" England checked his phone. Quarter past one. He had gone on far longer than he had ever anticipated talking to another person, ever.

"Quarter past one, I suppose I should sleep. I'll need to be up in less than six hours and I haven't even tried to sleep yet. I'll leave you to sleep if you'd like." He got off of the couch and stretched, feeling far more relaxed. His steps felt lighter as he brought the wasted food to his compost bin in the kitchen. As he walked back to turn off the light, Oliver's friendly voice came once more from behind the door.

"Arthur, love. Could you possibly pass over a pillow and such? It's… Not the most comfortable to sleep on the cement down there. Only if you don't mind. It's fine if you can't." Well, it would be the least he could do after keeping him there for upwards of five hours at least. If anything he walked to the back of the house to a linen closet, pulling a fold out cot from within. He brought the cot over with a pillow and spare comforter. It was a little inhumane to keep him without any comfort. Even prisoners got beds after all. He carefully unjammed the door and opened it up just wide enough to pass them through. Maybe, if he could convince him he was trustworthy he could get the rest of his spell equipment back and banish him back to wherever he came from. "Oh, you really didn't have to get everything for me. Thank you." The man's blue eyes were soft as he gently took the various goods from the man, exchanging for the cleaned off plate of fish sticks. He was genuinely grateful so it seemed. "Good night, Arthur."

"Good night, Oliver." He closed the door, jamming it once more before heading to bed. Confidence bolstered, a smile on his lips.


	5. The Sequester

The Sequester

As England got ready for the day, he felt somewhat refreshed. He had a plan and intended to fully implement it, his wand neatly tucked into the inside of his jacket. He finished changing the dressing on his thigh, cleaning it off, careful not to break the thin raw layer of skin slowly making its way over his cut. He was thankful for his status as a nation, without it his healing factor would be deathly slow. He pulled on his tan slacks and adjusted his lapels, adjusting his hair in the mirror one final time before walking out of the bathroom, energetic in step despite the few hours of sleep he had gotten that night. He put some packaged oatmeal in the microwave and got two bowls ready. He threw a spoon in one and once he had it ready, approached the barricade with the steaming bowl of oats. He had gotten good at making microwave oatmeal. He was proud of that. His foot quietly pushed the various pieces of furniture out of the way and he opened the door as silently as he could. Oliver must have retreated into his basement at some point in the night, the pitch depths of his cellar seeming to have now been claimed by the man. He placed that bowl of the oatmeal on the landing and slowly closed the door, silently latching it and moving the barricade back. It was like having a pet. A vicious and dangerous pet, but a pet nonetheless. Only after double checking the the handle wouldn't budge, he went and ate his oatmeal, reading the paper and sipping tea. A peaceful morning. When it came time to leave, he turned on the television, keeping the volume high but reasonable so the neighbors wouldn't complain.

His car pulled out of the driveway and he made the monotonous commute to the conference building. Mind whirring over the possibilities of his plan from the night before, he drummed his fingers on the wheel. A part of him couldn't wait to get home and continue with it, but this was his job. It would have to wait, and it would take time to convince the man to trust him. What a fun little project, dealing with the murderer in the basement. Well, he assumed he had killed people considering his previous eagerness to do so. He parked the car and got out, walking up to the glass and cement building. A secretary greeting him as he signed in and continued up to the conference room. His thoughts were so preoccupied that he had hardly noticed the Frenchman pursuing him, jumping a little as he tapped his shoulder.

"Oi, don't _do_ that Francis. What is wrong with you?" France appeared to be a little taken aback.

"I see you're feeling fine then." The man looked him over before sighing. "Ce n'est rien. You weren't answering your phone last night."

"I don't need to answer it if I don't want to. I saw enough of you yesterday, and I'm just about hitting today's quota." He had noticed several missed calls from France, when he got up this morning. Of course it had probably just been to chew him out, or knowing very well that England wouldn't pick them up after the events of last night so he could feign concern. He was onto him. Though a part of him wanted to thank the frog, for hadn't he been incredibly insensitive in proving that England was not in fact a very likeable person, he never would have had the opportunity to put his plan into action.

"You're being more abrasive than usual. It's not very attractive, Angleterre. After last night I thought you would have had some form of how you say, 'introspection'? Maybe that you cared a little more than you let on? Guess I was wrong."

"Well I guess you were, now if you'll excuse me." He turned heel and walked down the hall to the room. He didn't need to justify a thing to anyone, especially not France. The conference was relatively empty, he was early. Germany sat in a chair at the table, he was reading the paper as he did the word search from within it. He muttered a rough good morning and took a long sip of coffee before taking a glance at the time. In his glance, he noticed that it was indeed England who had walked in. He looked like he was about to ask something, but England quickly shut it down. "Good morning, Ludwig. Are you always this early?"

"Oh, yes. It's nice to see this place in order before everyone comes in. The view isn't bad either." He was right. The Shard stood tall, glistening in the cool dawn light across the river. It reflected across the water, brilliance and height dwarfing all the neighboring buildings, including the conference building itself. England stood at the massive window and just observed, the building's singularity catching his attention. If one looked closely, they could probably see the inner machinations of the building. Workers going to and fro, the bustle of businessmen and tourists. Of course, it wasn't visible from here. Not with the distance, or the sun reflecting against it so brilliantly. It was made of glass, but not meant to be looked into. More that it was meant to be looked out of. It was almost alienating in a way.

"I don't like your city, Arthur. It's cold and wet, but I don't mind coming here if it means I get to look at that every morning. An excellent piece of engineering and architecture, really." At some point the taller nation had gotten up and stood a polite distance away from England, taking in the view. "It stands tall and alone, unrivaled by the other buildings. Too bad the best tickets are so pricey." He chuckled. England nodded and turned to see the other nations filing in and went to take his seat. It appeared that there was a pointed effort being made not to sit next to him , even Canada kept a seat between them.

"You're allowed to move over, Matthew."

"Francis said you might want some space so-."

"Did he now? That's fine then." He internally groaned. The bastard had probably already gone on to tell half the nations about their little blow out last night, and then that half told the rest. Just dandy, wonderful. He was going to have some choice words with him after the meeting, and those words amounted to exactly zero. He had enough on his plate without dealing with petty gossip. The Frenchman refused to make eye contact with him as the meeting progressed. He didn't shy away from it, he just refused to acknowledge it. He refused to let it happen in the first place.

"Arthur, you have recently passed the base legislation, is that true?" At least Germany wasn't petty enough to let it get in the way of work. He nodded and pulled the copies of the papers out of his briefcase, handing them down to the nations. It seemed that Oliver had actually managed to sign and send off every document for him, the signatures matched and nothing was out of order in the papers when he got the final copy back. Was it considered forgery if he was still technically the person who signed them? He wasn't sure how that law applied across dimensions, but he wasn't going to question it. He explained the contents as the nations boredly flipped through the papers, Germany nodded in approval and resumed, linking the papers in with a global carbon plan. Finally something sensical would come out of this summit. France murmured something to Spain, no doubt it was about him as the Spaniard's eyes not so inconspicuously flicked in his direction every moment or two. He was surrounded by people and yet he was alone amongst them. Since he had the space and a lack of prying eyes, he began jotting out his plans to deal with basement dweller as if he was taking notes. The only thing he could really do at this point was do his best to figure out what spell he had used to come here and get the book out of the cellar. He'd need to continue accordingly there after.

Once everyone was dismissed, England got up and immediately took his leave, avoiding a certain American who attempting to tail him out of there, eventually stopped by Canada. He arrived home and opened the door, closing it behind him. Because of the productivity of the meeting, they managed to wrap up an hour earlier. He called out into the house to let Oliver know he was back. Better to make him feel overly comfortable in the home. He would be easier to convince that way. A few socked footsteps up the stairs and a chime of welcome came from behind the door. Exactly like a pet. England hung his jacket up, putting his just-in-case umbrella back into the stand. He took his shoes off and walked into the livingroom to turn the still going television off.

"Welcome home. Thank you for changing your mind about the telly, meant a lot. Porridge was good too." England hummed as he continued on to take care of the documents in his briefcase. He acknowledged Oliver's thanks as he passed the door and continued down to his office. He opened the filing cabinet and slipped them into their respective slots. Nice and tidy. His wand was placed on his desk, he gave the handle a nice pat as if to say 'soon'. As he walked back into the hall, Oliver's somewhat pleasant voice came from behind the door. "Did you do anything fun today? Because I sure didn't."

"Well I guess we're in the same boat then. Thank you for signing the papers in my… Absence." Oliver cooed a humble welcome and sighed. "And no, things weren't any better today, if you were wondering."

"You can tell me all about it." Oliver seemed eager and happy to listen. England delved into the day's events, or lack thereof. At least here he had someone to genuinely talk to. He told him everything, enjoying being able to just get it all off of his chest. Oliver was quite enjoyable to talk to, which meant he himself must be enjoyable to talk to. "People can be so rude, can't they? You'd think they'd at least some you an ounce of respect, considering you're hosting them." Yeah. They should. "And at least a little more considering you're the only one who's done anything productive. Needless to say, they undervalue you. It's not fair." He sounded like he spoke from experience. Their chat continued on for another hour or so. Time truly did fly when you were enjoying yourself. A ring from the doorbell cut in and England got up from the couch. His tea set had arrived! He thanked the courier and signed off on the delivery before closing the door."Hm? Who was that, Arthur?"

"Oh, my new teacups arrived. Say, it is coming upon tea time. Would you like some?" Oliver made his request from beyond the door for mint, with one sugar. England carefully opened the box and sighed with relief when everything was still intact. He put some water on to boil and grabbed some store bought muffins from the pantry, putting them on a plate. It didn't take him too long before he had a tray put together and he walked to the door of the basement. He set the tray down and took some of the barricade away to open the door. The lights in the cellar were on, Oliver walked up the stairs to retrieve his tea. He looked a mess, his hair needed a comb, very apparent bags hung under his eyes, and the comforter was wrapped around him like a cloak. He was almost pathetic. England watched as Oliver picked up the steeping tea and sipped it.

"Oh, a muffin too? Thank you." His blue eyes were kind, a soft satisfaction on his face as he took a blueberry muffin and bit into it. "Is something wrong? You can have the blueberry if you'd like. I'm sorry." He attempted to put it back on the plate. England shook his head. He couldn't believe he was about to say this.

"You look terrible. Come finish your tea and come out to take a shower, but that's _it."_ Oliver looked surprised and rightfully so.

"Are… You sure? I mean, I did stab you and tried to do it a second time."

"Are you trying to get me to change my mind?" Oliver shook his head fervently, a mouth full of muffin trying to reassure England that he wasn't. "Good, but if you want to I'm going to need to ask a favour first. What spell book did you use to come here?"

"What? Oh… I suppose I could go get it after I finish eating." That was easy. Really easy. Almost suspiciously so. Oliver munched on the muffin, asking England to hold his tea as he disappeared into the basement, coming back a few minutes later with an old tome. "It's bookmarked in there, I'm sure you'll be able to find it." He took back his tea as he handed England the book, sipping on it as he watched him look through the papers. This book was familiar. Too familiar to England in fact, so familiar that he distinctly remembered letting the flames consume it centuries ago. It's contents were horrific, calling for heinous acts to complete anything, even the most simple of spells. His mind really didn't want to know how interdimensional travel worked within it. He found the book mark and snapped the book shut in his hands. He 'thanked' Oliver and took a now empty teacup from him. "So, may I take a shower now?"

"Yes just one moment." He shut the basement door and quickly walked into the bathroom. He cleared it of all razors, clippers, and anything else that might be considered stab friendly. Had to play it safe. He took them and put them in a drawer in his bedroom before returning and opening the door, stepping aside. "It's all yours."

"Oh good, for a moment there I thought you might have tried to cheat me." Oliver laughed and walked out into the hall and leaving the comforter on the landing, England's heart going a mile a minute as he watched the man. He just walked on past and straight into the bathroom, closing the door behind him only to open it a moment later. "Oh, Arthur? Could I possibly borrow a set of clothes, I don't really have any." England nodded. "Thank you, love." As soon as that door was closed once more and the water started running, England rammed the handle with a chair. He needed to keep him in confined spaces, or wherever he could see him. Once he was positive that door couldn't be opened from the inside, he returned to his room and selected a plain white button up and some charcoal slacks. He opened the bathroom door and placed them on the vanity before quickly removing himself and blocking the door once more. His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He picked it up and pressed talk.

"Hey dude, you good to talk?" England groaned, why hadn't he checked the caller ID?

"No, why are you calling me?"

"Oh uh, well you sort of ran off before I could catch up today. Everyone's going out for dinner and I thought you might wanna be invited? Ya know, have a few drinks and loosen up a little, it'll be chill!" Oh great, this was a pity invite, wasn't it? And what did he mean by 'loosen up'? He wasn't being uptight about anything, he got slapped in a knife wound and upset when he realized no one liked him. That was pretty reasonable to him. "You there, Arthur?"

"I'm busy." This book wasn't going to decipher itself, and the sooner he had Oliver out of his hair, the better. "Is this all you're calling about because I do need to go, Alfred."

"Oh no, wait before you hang up, everyone wants to take a break tomorrow so no conference. Maybe we could hang out or something?"

"I'm busy then too."

"But you have like eight hours suddenly like super open…"

"And I filled them. I have things to do, Alfred. I can't just take every free second off to do nothing. I will see you in two days." He hung up on the protests and sighed, pinching his brow. The water stopped running in the bathroom. He had more important things to do.


	6. The Exhibition

**The Exhibition**

Canada watched America bang on the door with a closed fist. It was eleven in the morning, surely the man was awake already. Was he not home? He had to be. He couldn't possibly have had anything to do today outside the house in absence of the conference. The two had grown worried of England's absence the night before, it wasn't like him to refuse a night out like that. It wasn't like him in the slightest, if anything he hadn't been himself the entire week. America knocked once more, footsteps coming from within the house causing Canada to feel more than a little relief. The locks on the door shrieked as they were opened, England standing before them. He looked tired, dressed in casual clothing, his hands also stained with ink presumably from a fountain pen.

"What do you want? I said I was busy." He didn't seem at all happy to see them, quite irritated actually. America opened his mouth, but Canada quickly nudged him to shut it.

"We were worried, also Al's sorry." England sighed and looked the two over. Behind him, Canada could see furniture stacked up in the hall. Perhaps they were right to be worried. "Um, Arthur why is your living room in your hallway?"

"I'm doing some housework today, what of it?" He crossed his arms. They were getting nowhere, let alone into England's house. "You know, something grown men do sometimes when they have the time? Is this all you came here to do?"

"Arthur look, you're kinda scaring everyone. What's wrong?" A little blunt, wasn't it? Canada sighed and looked at the concerned American. "You can tell us, c'mon!" England rolled his eyes and attempted to shut the door, America putting his hand on the edge and holding it open. The shorter nation tried to push it a little harder, but it was obvious who was physically stronger.

"I really don't have time for this, you two. Half of my furniture is in my hallway for God's sake. I think it's obvious I'm in the middle of something." America didn't seem to be willing to take no for an answer, pushing past England into the house. "Hey now! You can't just-" It was too late for protest, America was already taking off his shoes. England grumbled something before holding the door open for Canada, apparently having come to the realization that this was not in fact a battle he could win at the moment. "You stay for lunch, but that is all. Both you got that?" He grouched off down the hall and around the corner into the kitchen. Canada and America followed behind him, walking in to see a mess of papers covering the counter, diagrams and lists surrounding an old book on the surface. England shut the leather bound bible of a book and began swiftly cleaning off the counter. He gave America a look as he picked up a piece of paper.

"Cor quad? Quode? Percatto, et ossa a mulier-" England snatched the paper from his hands and filed it away. "Aw man, is this more of that witchcraft stuff? Did I just curse someone? Oh man, was it France? Are you-"

"No, you twit. It's none of your business. I'm just translating some old works I found downstairs." Wasn't he supposed to be cleaning his house? Canada took a peek at whatever the papers were as England scolded America. It was definitely occult, anyone could tell it by looking at it.

"We could help you translate it Arthur."

"No, no you can't. Neither of you speak Latin, nor do I feel like teaching you right now." He scooped up the last of the papers and rushed out with them, presumably to put them away. America looked to Canada as the man left.

"Dude maybe this wasn't the best idea. If he's upset enough to do magic stuff then he's pretty upset. We should go."

"You barged in here and got us into this."

"It was your idea to come here in the first place!" England returned a few moments later, opening his fridge and scouring through it. The man frowned a little, from the looks of it he hadn't been grocery shopping in awhile. "So, Arthur? What's for lunch?"

"You're lucky you're getting anything at all. Eat what you want. I need to go rearrange the furniture. Having it there a second longer is going to drive me mad." He left the fridge open, letting America have at it before disappearing through the door. Canada silently followed, peaking around the frame to see England staring at the pile of furniture before clenching and stretching fingertips, taking a quiet breath as he did so, and picking up a coffee table to put back into the room. Pretty intense stuff for rearranging furniture.

"You need any help?" England jumped a little but quickly regained his composure.

"Well I suppose if you're here you might as well make yourself useful. Grab whatever and move it in, I'll help you with the loveseat." He took the table into the living room. The two of them made short work if the furniture, organizing it in a new, yet homely way in the room. Canada couldn't help but notice those green eyes flick back to the door every so often, as if waiting for something to come from within. Canada decided not to push it though, at least not yet. Back in the kitchen, America had managed to find some hot dogs and condiments, all he needed were buns.

"Do you have any? I could run to the store prob'ly."

"That won't be necessary, I should have some in the cellar…" His thought seemed to draw on behind those clouded eyes.

"I could go get them if you want-."

"No!" He was quick to interject and was already halfway to the door before America could finish his sentence. "I'll get them. It's fine. Completely fine."

"You don't seem fine, but whatever." America muttered under his breath as England left to retrieve the bread.

Son of a bitch. He held the handle of the basement door before slowly opening it. Why did they have to show up? Why? He said he was going to busy, and yet they still came. Now he had taken down his barrier and cleaned up his work just to seem even a semblance of sane to these two, and for what? To be asked to walk into the lion's den? Surely Oliver would be smarter than to try and kill him while there were still people in the house, right? Then again, considering his nature and appearance, it could very well be the best possible time to bring a swift end to his life. Suddenly, he didn't feel so confident in his prowess over the man. He was powerless, unarmed, and just barely over being stabbed in the leg. His steps were timid as he walked down the stairs, unsure what he'd find at the bottom. The lights were off. Of course they were, but he wasn't going to make that mistake again. He flicked them on as soon as he got to the bottom, Oliver sitting on his cot perhaps five meters away, a pleasant smile on his face. He said nothing, aware of the guests upstairs. England watched him for every step he took towards the room where he kept the deep freeze. Oliver watched back, apparently quite relaxed. He had to turn his back to walk any further into the room, the freezer on the other side humming softly. He opened the top, his guts and legs nearly giving out immediately upon the sight. His cry of shock drowned quickly by his gag reflex as he heaved onto the floor. Frozen, almost perfectly intact were the heart and small intestines of whatever poor soul had run in with whatever had done this, whoever had done this. The coagulant blood matted against them like mucus in the packed ice, the putrid scent of death reaping the clean air around him. His heaves turned quickly into bile which splattered at floor beneath his weak knees. A shadow filled the room as Oliver lingered against the doorway, His grin illuminated by the light behind him, cold eyes drilling holes into England's skull. He would have screamed, but Oliver just pointed to the floor above. This would look horrific on England's part. After all, who would believe him? He slowly stood upright, his eyes meeting that insufferable stare. The basement door opened, America calling down.

"You good down there? You die or something?" Oliver's eyes remained locked on him as he spoke.

"Not at all, just had to move some things around to get to them. I'll be up in a minute." Never did England think he'd learn to hate his own voice, but something about it had begun to make his skin crawl. The door closed and the footsteps receded back into the house. Oliver motioned to the freezer, as if to say that they were in there. He just had to look for them. He didn't trust Oliver enough to turn his back, he just stood, frozen like the flesh packed into his freezer. Oliver pulled the contact case from his pant pockets and toyed with it as he looked at England. "Clock's ticking, love." He slowly reached his hand back into the freezer. Oh God. He touched it. His hand immediately recoiled from the frozen meat, like veiny peeled grapes on his fingertips. He would have to turn his back and look at the butchery if he didn't want to feel it. He did so, those eyes still goring through his body as he slowly pushed the crushed ice to the side, another layer below it. Kidneys, large intestine, and a uterus laid neatly in the snow. He bit back vomit and dug past the pint of blood, pulling the buns from the bottom of the freezer. He shakily closed it, body numb yet so cold. He turned, jumping when his eyes met Oliver's who had moved a foot behind him. England quickly slipped out from under him and sprinted for the door, Oliver simply watching as he fled, making no effort to chase him down. He closed the basement door behind him. Not that it would be of much protection without the barricade. He recomposed himself as best as he could and walked into the kitchen, skin still crawling at the image plastered behind his eyelids.

"Longest bun run ever." America laughed and fiddled with the gas stove. Now normally England would feel quite at home, almost at peace during a time like this. A lack of argument between the three of them and the bright cheer they would so often bring him, almost a guarantee to brighten his usually drab days. Today however, that laugh had never made him felt so alone.

 _[Hey there! Been a little while, busy with work. However I have a fair bit of free time coming up so hopefully I can work more consistently. Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter (even if it is a little shorter than the one's before it) I expect to have a longer one out before Tuesday. Have a good weekend my doots!]_


	7. The Proposal

England said farewell to the two younger nations and watched the door close behind them. As soon as the taxi pulled out of the drive, a creak sounded behind him, Oliver slipping out from behind the white wood.

"Well, I was hoping to keep that hidden for at least another few days, but I suppose there isn't much I can do about it now." He sighed and closed the door unarmed, as far as England could tell. Armed or not, England put his hand on the knob to the front door, just about ready to run for what he could only assume was his life. Oliver sighed and sauntered away from the door. "Perhaps we could simply discuss this over a spot of tea? I am quite hungry. Understandable if you would rather just talk immediately."

"I think you've already said enough, now stand down or I'll-"

"Or you'll what? Call the police on a man who looks the same as you, has your DNA, and stowed away a bunch of organs in the freezer? They'd think you mad! No one would believe you, anything you could do at this point would frame you for murder. Just calm down and allow me to explain myself, Arthur." Oliver was right. He couldn't do anything, not now at least. He had missed his chance to plausibly correct this a fair while ago. His fingertips slid off the door knob. He watched the shoulders of the man drop ever so slightly. Had he been worried? His face certainly hadn't shown it. "Good, now shall we sit?" He walked into the living room, England slipping into the kitchen as soon as he was gone. His eyes hit the knife block and he quickly drew a small vegetable knife from within, grabbing a few spare snacks that had yet to be cleaned up as he tucked the blade into his waistband. He walked into the living room and saw Oliver sitting pleasantly in the armchair across from the couch, seated the furthest away from the door. He eyed the snacks as England set them down between the two of them.

"Now explain yourself." England stood, arms folded across from him, Oliver shook his head.

"It's awfully rude to impose yourself on someone like that when they're willing to have a civil conversation with you. Come now, sit." He reached over for a few crackers, downing them quite quickly. England slowly sat, crossing his legs and arms once more on the couch.

"Out with it." Oliver smiled at him, taking a quiet breath before taking a moment as if to contemplate the sequence of words he was about to use, rewriting it over and over in his mind. The silence was heavy, weighing down on England's body and mind. What was probably a brief moment began to drag on into eternity, his foot began to tap in an attempt to break the silence. He shifted his weight into the back of the chair, the cold steel of the blade warming against his waist. He was suddenly acutely aware of every aspect of the room, yet so isolated from everything else. Finally Oliver spoke.

"Are you content with your life?"

"That is not what we're here to-."

"Because I'm not." England paused. "You have no idea what I've been through to try and find a semblance of joy in my life. It changes a man, Arthur. What would you be willing to do to try and escape a chronic cycle of rejection, hatred, and bloodshed?" Oliver stared at him, the previously present joy was gone from his expression. Those blue slate eyes like ice on his skin. Inexorable, truly. Even when sitting, the man's presence was grand and almost domineering. "I know exactly how far you'd be willing to go. After all, I went there, and I still haven't left. So what do you think you're capable of?" Apparently the question wasn't rhetorical, as much as England would have wanted it to be. He knew he had a cruel streak, almost everyone did after all, but murder? If that's what we was implying, he couldn't possibly bring himself to harm an innocent person. Especially not one of his own. Not now. The thought itself was horrid, he couldn't possibly. What could have driven any version of himself into such a state. He didn't really want to know. "Well it appears you know just as well as I do. From what I understand, you've been trying to send me back to whatever hellscape you think I came from. Oh don't look at me like that, I'm not thick. You aren't exactly subtle in your approach. I've dealt with this several times over, Arthur. You never change, never."

"Have we met before? What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Well, I've only been here once before. I left fairly quickly. It was what? July to November of 1888? 1889? I can't quite remember the year, but it was the late 80's. It was a short visit, I didn't like it here very much, but returning I see that I was quite wrong." 1888. England remembered that year very well. The year a string of murders assaulted his city, only to have the murderer vanish as if in thin air. "I've read the archives, seems like quite the collection of people tried to pay homage if you will. Unfortunate, I had hoped it would have slipped under the radar." It appeared that Oliver had more than one alias.

"Why?" That's all England could think to say. What else could he do? Oliver had proven more than once to be capable of physically overpowering him, and his murder certainly didn't seem out of the question.

"You've read the tome, no? I think you know exactly what you need to send me home. I've already taken care of about twenty percent of the work. Just another four women to go and I can be on my way. Or, I can stay here and you can deal with me for the rest of your life. I wouldn't mind it, I feel like up until an hour ago we were getting on quite well! You're hardly as calloused as people seem to peg you as, truly." He reached down for another cracker and popped it in his mouth. "If you don't want to have me here however, that's fine. I'll just have to find another world to try my hand at, that's all. Of course, it'll come at a price."

"I'm not going to help you kill anyone, Oliver."

"Then I can stay here, you can continue to host me, and Elizabeth Swanson's life will have been for naught. It's really up to you. The pointless murder of an innocent and your comfort or just four more of sixty-six million for your life to go back to the way it was, and for her life not to be taken in vain. I mean, what else are you going to use her organs for?" He had a point. A point England would have rather taken arsenic than found justification for in that moment. Unfortunately, he was all out of arsenic. "I can see your hesitation, don't worry. It gets easier with every body. If you don't want to, I can always do it myself."

"What? No. There's not a bloody chance in hell I'm letting you roam around outside of this house." Oliver's eyes hooded as England said this, his impulse causing him to immediately interject.

"Well, then I suppose your only options are to deal with me, or those four other… Requirements. I'll give you time to think on it, should you need any help, just let me know." Oliver stood up and took the cracker plate with him, slipping out of the living room and into the basement before England could say anything more. The whole thing had left him with more questions than answers. Suddenly, he wanted the two younger nations to come back. The loud company of the conference seeming more than welcome to him. He sat there for a good while, his dilemma buzzing in his mind. Four innocents for his peace of mind? Would he ever be at peace again afterwards? It had been over fifty years since the last death sentence was ever given, and that was to a hardened criminal. Innocent young women didn't deserve it if the actual criminals of his nation didn't. Of course, he actually had a criminal in his basement at this very moment in time. In this case, it wasn't that it was illegal to institute the death penalty on the murderer, it was that he physically couldn't if he tried. Oliver was one step ahead of England as far he could tell, he had been played at his own game. He could live in either guilt or fear, he already had a lot of guilt. What could a little more hurt? No. He shoved the thought out of his mind with a shake of his head, standing up and going back to his room to grab the work he had thrown onto his bed. He brought it back into the kitchen and rearranged it back into the formation it was before he was interrupted. His eyes stared blankly at the papers, drawing over every line he had made in his translations and notes. He had hoped he would be able to use animal organs or something of the like. The butcher down from the grocer often didn't mind giving them up. From the looks of it however, it wasn't likely he could. What other option was there? Grave robbing? Almost as bad as the murder itself. He didn't have many options, did he? Even if things had gone as planned, and he had been able to gather everything without Oliver catching onto him, he still would have had to resort to murder. If anything, his discovery downstairs had in fact made his work a little easier. One less body on his hands. Of course, it was still five bodies on the streets no matter what. Perhaps the black market could help? Not that he welcomed the illegal trade in his country, but it could possibly help him in a pinch.

He pulled himself away from the books and into his bedroom, sitting at his oaken desk and pulling his laptop towards him. He had government protection in these matters, he could say it was for 'research'. He triple checked his firewall and turned on his VPN before plunging himself into the onion browser that was the deep web. He was hardly the only nation that browsed it. The amount of illegal activity that occurred needed to be monitored after all. £700,000 for a heart, £175,000 for a kidney… He may be rich, but he couldn't possibly afford the royal family noticing the balance. He did his best to keep his eyes off of the gruesome 'product displays', starting to regret his choice to browse for it. He quickly closed out the tabs and turned the laptop off, more than a little paranoid of what might lurk on the page awaiting his click. Truly, a dilemma. Oliver seemed to want to go home, but England had no way to do so. If he didn't do so, then Oliver would make his house his home, and he certainly didn't want that.

He slowly spun in his chair to face the rest of his bedroom. His cutlass remained neatly above his head board. His hands certainly weren't clean, were they? He had been around since well before 300 BC, there wasn't a number off the top of his head for the body count he and his people were responsible for. There probably never would be either. This would be a plausible four people of millions to be added to the count. Besides, keeping Oliver here would do far more harm than good, for everyone. He would be grasping at straws to find another solution. He could find a way to put up with him, he did seem capable of legislature and government responsibilities after all. If Oliver hadn't taken Elizabeth's life, perhaps he could have considered the option, but he had. His own preemptive stubbornness seemed to run in the both of them, so it seemed. Honestly without the murderous intent, he didn't seem like such a terrible person. He was lonely. So was England. How did this man continue to evoke his sympathy time and time again? It frustrated him, being toyed with. He needed time to think, his body was sore, tired, and honestly the hot dogs weren't cutting it. His bed invited him to lay down and he did so, his back practically sighing in relief. Late nights, early mornings, along with physical and mental trauma were not his cup of tea. He counted the continents of the acoustic finish of his ceiling. Maybe if he took his mind off of it entirely, he could look at it from a new perspective, instead of obsessing over it like he had been.


End file.
